"_December 14._ His suffering is so great, so continued, and his fortitude so completely gone, that any further change must make him delirious. "_December 17._ Not a moment can I be from him. I sit by his bed and read all day, and at night I humour him in all his wanderings.... He rushed out of bed and said 'This day shall be my last,' and but for me most certainly it would. The blood broke forth in similar quantity the next morning, and he was bled again. I was afterwards so fortunate as to talk him into a little calmness, and he soon became quite patient. Now the blood has come up in coughing five times. Not a single thing will he digest, yet he keeps on craving for food. Every day he raves he will die from hunger, and I've been obliged to give him more than was allowed.... Dr. Clark will not say much.... All that can be done he does most kindly; while his lady, like himself in refined feeling, prepares all that poor Keats takes, for--in this wilderness of a place for an invalid--there was no alternative. [To Mrs. Brawne.] "_January 11._ He has now given up all thoughts, hopes, or even wish, for recovery. His mind is in a state of peace, from the final leave he has taken of this world, and all its future hopes.... I light the fire, make his breakfast, and sometimes am obliged to cook; make his bed, and even sweep the room.... Oh I would my unfortunate friend had never left your Wentworth Place for the hopeless advantages of this comfortless Italy! He has many many times talked over 'the few happy days at your house, the only time when his mind was at ease'.... Poor Keats cannot see any letters--at least he will not; they affect him so much, and increase his danger. The two last I repented giving: he made me put them into his box, unread. "_January 15._ Torlonia the banker has refused us any more money. The bill is returned unaccepted, and to-morrow I must pay my last crown for this cursed lodging-place: and what is more, if he dies, all the beds and furniture will be burnt, and the walls scraped, and they will come on me for a hundred pounds or more.... You see my hopes of being kept by the Royal Academy will be cut off unless I send a picture in the spring. I have written to Sir T. Lawrence. "_February 12._ At times I have hoped he would recover; but the doctor shook his head, and Keats would not hear that he was better; the thought of recovery is beyond everything dreadful to him.